


i made a fire and watching it burn (thought of your future)

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Character Study, Drabble, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Sort Of, Stand Alone Chapters, This is a rollercoaster of emotions, implied depression, no actual explicitly stated sex tho, this is so self indulgent, to some degree, whoopty do coastcity is writing angst AGAIN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-10-27 19:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20765714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: Inspired by June Jordan's 7 part poem "12:01 AM (for Haruko)".





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> i have never done anything like this before.  
but anyways...ive been reading a lot of poetry these past few days, still been in a mental health rut, but June Jordan writes such beaitiful and amazing things that just make me itch to write something.  
i know the world does not need any more multi chapter things from me because I am the absolute worst at updating, but these will be short, just like the parts they are inspired by.  
full credit to June Jordan for her writing, it's so heartwrenching and amazing and I wish I was capable of something quite as beautiful.  
these are kind of a character study/experimental thing for me and might later on delve into annoyingly descriptive imagery, they also won't be the most in character thing I've written and therefore please accept my apologies for that in advance.  
title is from head over heels by tears for fears, as the summary says this is inspired by seven parts of 12:01 AM (for Haruko) by June Jordan, I claim no part of her own writing as my own.  
as is the norm, this is a work of complete fiction, please do not repost elsewhere without my permission. thank you!  
btw, the lovely metaphor of ocean and fire is the brainchild of drifter_dreamer and partially inspired this work, i love it and i wanted to expand on it and hopefully do it justice, because i cannot stop thinking about it.

_"Rushing like white_

_waters rapid toward precipitous _

_and killer rocks_

_the blood of time alone_

_escapes control and leaking_

_useless_

_dries and quantifies_

_the liquid loss of impulse_

_purified by any of your fingertips_

_that touch my face" -** I. 12:01 AM (for Haruko), June Jordan**_

Faenza is not Pierre's home. The cobblestones under sneaker soles feel familiar, but they are not home, not even figuratively. Familiar faces and friendly smiles and touches only mean so much when you feel like you're living a life that's not even your own, is so far from your control, feels like one out-of-body experience followed by another.

Bologna is only marginally closer to home. He's lived there for some time but the prefurnished rooms and exceedingly blank walls would probably give a different impression to anyone not familiar with the place. The most familiar part of Bologna is its geographical presence- a near perfect halfway point between Maranello and Faenza, where the opposing tides of their lives can finally crash into one another, create a wave that'd put even the Pacific to shame.

Both literally and figuratively, Pierre is oceanic blue, troubled by the passing of time and occasionally the whole world around him, and Charles is scarlet, the color of a weeping wound, full of fire that drives him a little too far sometimes, burns his own insides. There should be no continuity where they coexist.

But there is, when Charles' hands are soft and warm on Pierre's cheeks and his own arms find comfort in the familiarity of Charles' waist, and their lips fit together like a puzzle. Charles can relax, the fire in his stomach momentarily quenched by the sense of peace Pierre exudes in his every action, and the latter finds comfort in the gentleness Charles shows him, feels the electric buzz of hope on Charles' lips and for once forgets how every second feels like a betrayal from the concept of time itself.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles is not mentioned in this chapter, its just pure pierre sad shit also it could be seen as...not self harm but rather self neglect? so tread carefully.  
i am very sorry if this makes no sense at all, the first draft of this chapter was happyish or at least hopeful and then i backspaced the whole thing and rewrote it as this one, just unadulterated angst from the cursed depths of my brain.  
next chapter should be better and will include the actual ship. i am very sorry for this disaster of a chapter.  
as is usual, this is a work of fiction, not to be copied elsewhere wihout my permission.  
full credit for "12:01 AM (for Haruko)" goes to the magnificent June Jordan.

_ "The rain does not become a clock _

_ does not become the rain"** -II, 12:01 AM (for Haruko), June Jordan** _

Like stubborn dirt on sweat stickied skin, all Pierre wants is to wash the past eight months away, be reborn out of the protection of opaque shower curtains as something new.

He sets the hotel shower to its coldest temperature, and when he steps in, the icy water plasters disheveled bangs to his burning, sweaty forehead. The shower head has enough pressure to make each drop of water a sharp sting, even harsher than a recovery ice bath- he can't help but shiver against the chill, feel it deep under his skin like the cold is becoming part of himself.

He stands motionless, lets the spray flow over him until he can't feel his toes or the dull ache inside his own head and finally has the sense to at least turn the faucet off before he catches a case of hypothermia, thinks about the sort of vitriole he'd catch from Helmut Marko for that sort of display of weakness.

_Weakness_. The word rings in his head, makes it hurt worse than before, echoes until his eardrums feel like they're going to bust from the inside out and the room is spinning and he has to sit down before he passes out. He probably looks a mess, mostly naked save for the towel haphazardly wrapped around his waist, hair sticking to his face and his head tucked between his knees like a drunk after a weekeng binge.

He stays there for what feels like hours, body trembling against his will in a desperate attempt to warm up against the cool wall behind his back. Tan flesh meets white tile like the rain meets the drought cracked earth, time seems to slow down and speed up simultaneously, and when he stands up again, years and minutes seemingly take out the same fraction of the calendar and the clock, the heat of his own body has returned some of the color to his stony face, and Pierre thinks that this is the closest he'll ever get to a rebirth.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a happier chapter! written by me of all people! yes its possible, even if its not very good and makes it blatantly obvious that my writing thrives in sad situations!  
also if this is out of character.............very sorry. i am not good at making things Not Sad and still realistic. this was p self indulgent and these are just getting worse every chapter so uhhhhhh yeah smh @ myself.  
this is way less uhh probably sexual than the poem intended but thats reserved for later on when the body worship gets REAL alright good.

_"Thinking about chocolate_

_I woke up_

_and tried to move_

_but where you kept me_

_nipples and the milk_

_of mystery bestirred the mouth_

_of my imagination."_ -_**III. 12:01 AM (for Haruko), June Jordan**_

Puffs of warm air leave patches of humidity on Pierre's bare collarbone where Charles lays, snoring just audibly, the latter content to rest his ear against the familiar thump-thump of Pierre's lazily beating heart in his chest. Morning light floods through the thin curtains of Charles' Monaco bedroom, casts a certain slant of light right onto his face.

Pierre thinks maybe he should already be stirring, should get some sort of caffeine into his system and do something at least somewhat productive today. Maybe even spend some time in the sim to try to make the lives of everyone back in Faenza slightly less stressful for the next week, but Charles is clinging to him like a padlock, arms wrapped around Pierre's middle as if he's the Monegasque's lifeline, his last connection to a shore.

The elder of the two is lost in his own thoughts when he feels a far too familiar pair of lips kissing the hollow of his throat, up his jaw and back down towards where his too large t-shirt is hastily pushed up and a large swath of perfect tan flesh and toned muscle is on display. Pierre's breath hitches when Charles gives the skin a playful nip, and Charles looks up to make eye contact, sleepy hazel eyes shining with a glint of something mischievious.

"You're amazing," Charles deadpans like it's a simple fact and not his highly subjective opinion as he clumsily pushes himself onto elbows and back up Pierre's body, captures their lips in a sloppy kiss.

Charles pulls back to let Pierre catch his breath, returns his own mouth to its home in the crook of the the older man's neck. "_Absolument incroyable_," he breathes into the thin skin there, feels it grow warmer with a rush of blood.

"You don't have to talk to me like I'm going to break," Pierre manages in a whisper, solidifies his voice and reaches down to squeeze Charles' wandering hand with his own. "I'm not made of glass. I'm okay."

"No, no, I know, Pierre," Charles says seriously, pushes himself into Pierre to close the gap between their lips once more and eliminate the chasm of wanting and not having. "You're more than okay."


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dunno how i feel about this chapter, i dont usually write compromising chapters but u know it had to happen for this poem. this is all in one go stream of concious writing bc the first two drafts were too thought out and sythetic sounding.  
anyways im actually on top of all my classwork and life stuff for once so hmmm yeah i wrote this with the newfound free time, it is unedited and unproofread, the whole shebang, and im publishing it at night on a sleep deficit with a killer headache so i am apologizing right now in advance for inconsistencies or shit quality. also my french is extremely limited so if its all wrong form blame google translate. thank you for reading!

"_Forget about fever_

_Forget about healthy or unhealthy_

_this or that_

_At times _

_the flesh below the thin skin _

_of your naked leg_

_seems to my pilgrim lips_

_a living column smooth but swollen_

_with the juice of my new_

_destiny"_ -_**IV., 12:01 AM (for Haruko), June Jordan**_

Maybe it's the champagne and the adrenaline mixing, but Charles is completely overwhelmed by the sight in front of him.

Pierre's knuckles are tinged white from how hard he's clenching his fists in the thousand thread count bedsheets, head thrown back against the pillow and the expanse of smooth skin on his neck tempting to Charles's hungry mouth. The Frenchman's face looks pale in contrast to rosy lips, his forehead slightly shiny in the moonlight, and Charles almost feels bad, knows Pierre is beyond exhausted from the most taxing race of the year and doesn't have the podium champagne in his system to keep his head from pounding and his limbs from trembling due to dehydration.

_Almost_. But right now Charles is too busy being in awe of what he's seeing to care. It's a rare sight, Pierre looking so wrecked with so little interaction. Usually it's the other way around, Pierre's the one winding Charles up after a long race, but tonight's different, and Charles is soaking up every second he can of seeing this, seeing Pierre looking so vulnerable for Charles only.

Charles licks a wet stripe up the soft skin on Pierre's inner thigh, just short of the hem of his boxer briefs, and takes in a moment to dedicate the sound of the the nearly inaudible whine that escapes the Frenchman's throat to memory. In some sort of terribly filthy way, Charles finds it beautiful, could listen to it like the soundtrack of his own life forever.

Pierre drops all of his characteristic patience in an instant, frantically tugs Charles up to connect their lips in a sloppy kiss, gasps louder than he probably intends when the Mongasque bites his lower lip and licks into his mouth. They stay like that for what seems like an eternity, and Pierre feels like a naive and inexperienced teenager again with the way Charles is unravelling him in this anonymous hotel room on an anonymous moonlit Singapore night.

They pull apart solely for the purpose that humans have to breathe to survive, but Charles' devilish mouth is back on Pierre's torso in record time, lips trailing lower and lower and-

"Stop being a fucking tease, Charles," Pierre gasps, curls his fingers into the bedsheets until he's sure the digits are turning blue.

Charles leans back, rests his body weight on his knees and manages a wry smile at all of Pierre in front of him. He wants to live in this moment forever, wants to utilize all the time life has given him so he can remember the utter beauty of the scene.

He pushes the palm of his hand down on one of Pierre's hips, pauses their motion and leans back up so his face is right next to Pierre's, cups the elder's face in a motion so tender that it stands in juxtaposition to the rest of their scenery.

"_Merde_," Charles whispers. He can't help reverting back to their mother tongue even if he tries, his own lips trailing along Pierre's as he speaks, "Look so fucking good like this."

Pierre smiles goofily at the compliment, tries to grind his hips up but is met with the resistance of Charles's hand and body weight pushing him down.

"I love you," Pierre says after a moment's pause, simply, softly, but earnestly, presses his mouth up to Charles for a kiss that seems far too gentle to be a part of their debauchery, "but please do something."

Charles gives him a filthy grin, hazel irises mostly occupied by exceedingly wide pupils.

"_Je t'aime aussi chéri,_" he whispers, lips already trailing back down Pierre's neck, "_tout por toi_."


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ myself: hey maybe do something productive today or maybe update take a picture or something  
also me: More Of This Poetry Based Nonsense  
but seriously if u look at the numbers this has less going on than most of my one shots, lmao, but I dont really mind because this is way more satsifying for me to write somehow so humm....oops.  
ANYWAYS, i am currently sick and spending a lot of my time chillin in bed so...wrote this since i dont have much else to do. its happy and incredibly fluffy bc the next couple of chapters wont be....so be prepared. Im about to be back on my sad boy shit next chapter

_"Then how should I_

_subsist_

_without the benediction of our bodies_

_intertwined_

_or why?" -** V., 12:01 AM (for Haruko), June Jordan**_

"You look happy."

Pierre glances down at Charles underneath him, the Monegasque's face slightly flushed from the sake they shared over dinner. They're both a bit tipsy, and Charles's fingers are struggling at the striped button down Pierre's wearing, halfheartedly attempting to undo the buttons. He gives up soon thereafter, shirt half undone, concludes that it is a cockblock from Hell, and istead wraps the soft material into his hands, tugging Pierre down to just be closer.

The Frenchman grins at the statement, a genuine, familiar smile that Charles loves and has missed as of late. He reaches up to gently grasp Charles face in warm and calloused hands, finally leans down to connect their lips. Pierre tastes like breath mint and alcohol, and Charles thinks he would be satisfied if they stayed like this forever.

Pierre pulls back, leans his forehead against Charles own, but keeps his hands on the latter's face, thumb gently stroking soft skin and the raised bump of cheekbone beneath it. He closes his eyes and manages a small laugh, and warmth spreads across Charles cheeks when his brain seems to realize, holy shit I am so in love with you, with this.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," Pierre half whispers, opens his eyes and pecks Charles on the lips once more, "No thanks to the alcohol, though."

"Yeah..." Charles trails off, struggling to find his own words over the awe that's frozen him in place right here, right now. Sometimes life doesn't feel real- especially when he's with Pierre, it feels like a suspension of time and reality itself. Here he is, some kid from Monaco, twenty one years old and racing for Ferrari at the highest level in the world, winning races and snagging poles, and oh yeah, he has an incredibly hot French boyfriend that he's known for over a decade that races against him, whose body weight is currently pressing him into the soft bed in their Tokyo hotel room. It all feels like a crazy fever dream, or an extended hallucination that Charles has tricked himself into.

He is snapped back to reality when Pierre leans back up, gazes down with a sort of admiration that makes Charles feel so incredibly vulnerabe, and quietly speaks, his accent filling the room with soft words-

"You make me happy."

For Charles, it feels like a breath of fresh air and as if the wind is being knocked out of his chest simultaneously- like burning and then being dunked into a subzero ice tank. Pierre's probably a little bit drunk, but his words come across with such conviction, a four word sentence that's enough to (metaphorically) bring Charles to his knees.

He reaches up a hand to grasp Pierre's from where it rests on his face, grins goofily. Pierre always makes him feel kind of stupid in a way that is both refreshing and terrifying.

"You make me happy too, Pierre," he says, voice tinged with silly giddiness, and Pierre laughs and falls back onto his chest once nore.

_I never want this to end_, Charles thinks, and when he captures a glance of familiar cobalt blue eyes, he imagines Pierre is thinking the same thing.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) none of these chapters have been as well written in a poetic sense as the first so um mission failed? oops  
2) this is sad  
3) i'm gonna include the french sentence/translation at the end bc its IMPORTANT to the story but i dont wanna spoil anything. also i use google translate so  
4) getting to include austin in here made my little austinite heart beat fast lmao  
5) sorry for this hastily written disaster, it's looooong compared to the others. now lets get started

_"Somebody else might think I mean_

_the epiderm the tissues_

_and the cells_

_that matter into tangible configurations_

_only" -**VI, 12:01 AM (for Haruko), June Jordan**_

It starts when Pierre returns home from Milton Keynes, looking tired in an indescribable way and not in his usual jetlagged manner. Charles notices, of course, has spent enough seconds of his life with his ear to the door of everything Pierre that sensing that something has changed is second nature, but it seems far simpler to tuck it away in some far corner of his brain and not overanalyze.

Instead he tugs Pierre to their bedroom and suggests sex- "a cure-all for exhaustion", he winks, but the Frenchman looks through him with eyes that may as well have their own vacancy signs and says he's just too tired for it, and later that night Charles tries not to notice the way Pierre pretends to be asleep in his arms but doesn't manage any actual rest at all.

It's never been his strongpoint, the emotional side of things. It's not that he lacks the empathy, but rather he can't find the words to express it- always the same "I'm sorry" and "I understands" tumbling from his mouth, and they feel like disingenuous curses by the time he completes the sentence. Rather, he prefers to comfort with touch, to put a reassuring hand on a warm body and in some small way manage to say "_I'm here_" without any words at all.

But right now, Pierre seems to reject his extraneous touches, seems to tuck himself away in his own little world of misery, refuses the intimacy in a way that makes Charles feel equally useless and nauseated. They still kiss, hug, hold each other at night, enough to keep up the theatrics of their relationship, but it feels like something fundamental is missing. 

And so, against the better half of his intuition, Charles chooses to ignore it. Pierre's an adult, has always been capable of pushing his way through hardship and finding help when he can't do it on his own, and Charles has enough on his plate at Ferrari without having to worry about his boyfriend acting strangely, he reasons. He's got bigger things to worry about, knows that even Pierre would understand that sometimes your career comes first.

Two weeks pass in a time span that feels more like hours, and it takes a little bit more willful ignorance on Charles' part to not notice how Pierre's skin has gone from glowing with bronze from their shared summer excursion to an almost sickly pallor, cheeks looking hallowed in the dull autumn light in Austin. He's always heard that Texas is supposed to be hot, but right now Pierre is shivering in the cool breeze passing through downtown as they walk side by side to another grand hotel without any distinguishing features to set it apart from the rest. Charles feels weirdly self concious, being passed by masses of people on foot and electric scooter who don't even give pause to the two drivers walking down the sidewalks, virtually hand in hand, before remembering that- oh yeah, this is America. They don't really care about F1 that much here.

The lobby is covered in glittering gold amenities that capture the chandelier light and cast it onto Pierre's face, gentle sparkles that light up his features in a way that Charles finds hauntingly pretty. They make it into the elevator before he can't contain himself anymore, one hand reaching to cradle the familiar shape of Pierre's stubbly jaw.

It's a new level of unnerving to have Pierre not react at all, eyes only glancing down at Charles with a sort of apprehension in them that makes the Monegasque ache.

"Pierre," he whispers, says the name like a prayer, "Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

Pierre squints, gently grabs Charles hand and guides it back down to his side. 

"You never asked," he says cooly, exhales and averts his gaze to the mirrored ceiling, purposefully looking anywhere but his own reflection.

Charles breath hitches in his chest, and he's immediately overcome with guilt. He hasn't asked, because everytime in the past he didn't need do, could just kiss Pierre's pain away and pretend like everything is fine until it is again. Not this time.

Pierre tips his head back down to look straight ahead, and his voice prickles with a contained, resigned sort of anger that almost sounds like sadness.

"You never ask. You always expect me to tell you," he says simply, smiles wistfully at Charles. The elevator dings and the doors slide open, but Charles just twists at the waist and hits the button to force them shut again, picking a floor even higher than their own as the next destination, as to keep the sanctity between the two of them in the miniscule square footage of a hotel elevator.

"Always busy in your own little world, Charles. Always busy...just wanting to touch..." Pierre trails off, breathes in and ignores the ache pounding away at his ribcage. "Did you even care?"

Charles is taken aback by the words, because of course he cares. Alongside the racing, Pierre is his entire world, and while he can admit that he's been more focused on Ferrari, he'd do anything to take away Pierre's sadness, waves formed within drowning him from the inside out. Charles dreads to think of how long Pierre has felt like this.

"_Mon amour_," he breathes, reverting back to a language that feels like comfort in the worst of times, and Pierre gives him that same sad smile again that makes Charles feel like he's just kicked a puppy. What is he supposed to say?_ I love you_ and _I'm sorry? You deserve better?_ Mostly, the same terrible cortex of his brain that always interrupts is screaming at him to surge forward and hold Pierre, but he fights back the temptation.

"Of course I care," he settles on, voice sounding as composed as it possibly can, "I'm no good with words, Pierre, you know this." The deflection tastes acidic in his own mouth, he can't believe himself, making excuses like this for ignoring Pierre's misery.

Pierre shakes his head, inhales like he's been under the surface for a long time, finally gets enough air in his lungs to force a laugh that nearly sounds like a sob.

"Yeah, Charles, yeah, I forgot," he says without any humor in his voice, and the elevator chime rings again, delivering them to their floor once more. He steps out into the silent hallway, Charles following behind, and feels the Monegasque's hand on the small of his back, gently escorting him to their rooms- across the hall from each other, like Pierre requested. It makes him feel sick to his stomach; sick of touch and sick of begging for someone to listen.

He stops in front of his door, hands trembling as he digs for the room key in his pockets. Charles is standing near enough that Pierre can feel his body heat, sense his very presence; before he realizes it, he's spun around, pressing himself as much into Charles as he can, ignoring the younger man's squeak of surprise. The second their lips disconnect, he's speaking in French, having no other way to get the words out quick enough through gasping, frantic breaths-

_"Ils n'ont pas renouvelé mon contrat pour l'année prochaine."_

and before Charles can even process it, Pierre has pushed his way into his room, leaves Charles to gape at the asymmetrical grain of the massive wooden door that slams in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "ils n'ont pas renouvelé mon contrat pour l'année prochaine." = they didn't renew my contract for next year (via google translate).  
thank you for reading, as always.

**Author's Note:**

> 12:01 AM (for Haruko) can be found on pages 475-476 here -> (https://bit.ly/2llAcDp). I will also include each part at the beginning of each chapter.  
thank you for all the reads and comments you guys, it means so fucking much to me.


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